Even In Muck I Follow
by SpaceToy
Summary: Razumikhin is looking for Raskolnikov because his friend had decided to leave his bed even though he is sick. What happens when Razumikhin doesn’t lose his sight on Raskolnikov when the man walks away from him?


Fan based work from: Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky

Characters: Raskolnikov + Razumikhin. (Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov [nicknames: Rodya or Rodenka] + Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin)

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the original plot written and created by Feodor Dostoevsky. All original quotes have been documented. No profit from this work has been made! This is simply for my own amusements! To be read as a Fan-fiction work for Fan-fiction readers. **IMPORTANT: look for the work cited notes at the end of the fanfic. Where there are [ ]'s it means that those are the ORINGINAL quotes from the book and I didn't make them up.

Warnings: Mild language, and mild hints of a male / male relationship? But, really you can just see them as the affectionate friends that they are.

Some possible spoilers! There are obvious hints of what Raskolnikov has committed.

Plot: Razumikhin is looking for Raskolnikov because his friend had decided to leave his bed even though he is sick. What happens when Razumikhin doesn't lose his sight on Raskolnikov when the man walks away from him?

Author's Ravings: First of all, I am a new writer, so very sorry for this not so good. Also, I am not at all familiar with how Petersburg looked like, and so please take no notice of that, or that the water is polluted, it is just for nice descriptions. Comments are welcome, since I suck at writing my own fanfics, even though I have read fan-fiction stories for many years. I hope my follow up will be much more improved if I do so have the desire to write more, which it seems like I should. I encourage you to read the book if u want to know the original story. I would imagine you will be very confused if you don't know the original story line. I took a few ideas that I liked and wrote this. It's just an exploration.

Story~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**R**azumikhin didn't know where he had gone. He searched the tiny room, the hallway, and for the past few minutes he had honestly thought of checking under the bed more then once. He sighed, and picked his tall, lanky body from the floor. On his way out, he almost got himself a concussion when his head bumped in the frame of the doorway for the third time that day. Putting his rather large hands up, he let himself lean against the frame, feeling the rough, dry wallpaper coil lightly under his dirty, but otherwise fine finger nails. He tried to hold back the unexpected burst of anger that flicked in his animated eyes, but he couldn't. He was almost insulted by his friend who had run out on _him_, on _them_, in his state. Making his mind, he quickly started out of the building and down the street. He wasn't sure, but he remembered talking to Rodion about going to a certain place, and now suddenly he guessed that he might have gone there after all. He frowned, not seeing his friend have the strength to go that far, and his pace quickened with that thought in mind.

He almost ran into someone when he was just about to enter the door of a public building. Before he could utter an apology, his eyes worked faster then his muddled thoughts, and he automatically gazed down at the stranger.

Razumikhin felt a slight jolt work deep in his stomach when his eyes rested on the lightly tussled, but still excellent looking deep brown hair. His first instinct was to hug the man tightly, especially when he noticed that the well made face was too pale as Rodya turned his head slightly upwards to lock his dark eyes against his lighter ones. He noticed that his friend wasn't too far gone to recognize him; on the contrary, he even thought he saw him smile lightly, as if expecting him to come. Except that suddenly the warmth that Razumikhin always kept reserved especially strong for his friend was uncharacteristically missing for a moment. His light eyes flickered dangerously, and he burst out in anger.

["So this is where you are!"] (142).

He yelled and insisted that his friend should have stayed in bed, and asked him what did it mean that he had gone out on his own in this condition (142).

["It means that I was bored to death with all of you, and I want to be alone"] (142).

Razumikhin watched him; he knew his friend took pleasure in being blunt sometimes. It was a way to move things quickly forward, he always was in a hurry, and he liked to push people away.

Razumikhin ended his motherly lecture, and the dark haired man continued to keep his eyes blank, and his body leaned to the right side, as if he wanted to step beside the taller figure.

["Let me pass"] (142). He spoke evenly.

_This is all turning out wrong; he looks like a ghost, and he needs to be in bed; if he doesn't instantly drag himself to it, I will carry him. _

Razumikhin thought before he revealed his intentions to the man, but really he wasn't joking. Seizing his friend's slender shoulders, he leaned in towards the face, swimming almost in those spectacular dark eyes, but his determination didn't allow him to muse over his friends good looks.

["Let you pass? You dare to say that to me?"] I should grab you under my arm, and put you to bed (143).

Raskolnikov couldn't take this anymore, it was suffocating him.

["Why do you insist on helping me. I don't want it, I don't want your kindness!" ](143).

He shouted more lively this time, and Razumikhin noticed him becoming feverish. His angry expression faltered slightly. The thin frame twitched under his grip, which made Razumikhin unconscientiously take his larger hands away from his friend.

He did however insist that Raskolnikov should at least come to a party, to be with people, and to stay connected, but the fool refused. Of course, he knew him well enough, the type he was, and so he was convinced Rodya would show up anyway.

Letting Raskolnikov pass from the gate into the street, he suddenly felt not entirely convinced about what the other would do in the mean time.

_Even insane man can sound sane…_

"Ah to the devil with this." He whispered, but continued to look after his friend with worry.

Making his body move, Raskolnikov dragged himself away from Razumikhin, and everyone else. His legs were about to give out on him, but his determination to end it all very soon, as soon as he found a way, was making him stay on his own two feet. He was still trembling from both meeting Razumikhin, even though he expected him to show up and his earlier talk with the clerk. He wondered if he had said too much, revealed too much, but who would look for those things hidden under the rock? If they were all suspecting him, he wanted them to finally say it. Say it clearly and loudly so he wouldn't have to endure this. He was not going to be played with, if they wanted him, he would at least go and spit in all of their faces first. Of course they had nothing, nothing on him, no real evidence, but they were too sure of themselves that the murderer would just spend all the money or do something stupid like that and they would wait for him like a pack of wolves. They were all wrong, he demonstrated his ability to suggest that he was the killer, and that baffled the clerk, so he was still strong enough, although it would have been better if he believed him, and then this would be over.

Raskolnikov aloud himself a little passive grin, it played oddly on his pale features, and sunken eyes, as if they were someone else's lips revealing their pleasures with triumph.

The late afternoon sun was sinking below some of the tall buildings, but he preferred the night anyway. He walked with a quick pace, although his head was spinning. The newly brought clothes by Razumikhin fit him well, and made him appear at least decent.

He reached the river, and regardless of its lightly yellow and greenish coloring, it was still shinning brilliantly in the dimming lights of the city. Leaning his very tired limbs on the side of the bridge, he permitted himself this rest. He tapped his some what long fingernails that were carefully manicured by Razumikhin against the old bristling edges of the bridge.

Looking at his thin hands, he thought he saw a trickle of blood form in the center of his palm. Narrowing his eyes to see this better, he put his palm as close to his face as possible. The blood gushed suddenly out, and he jerked his head violently back, almost making himself fall over.

_I'm imagining this, it's an illusion_.

He reflected, but hastily wiped the blood on his coat anyway, and again he turned his hands quickly around to see the inside of his palms.

The hands were clean, clean enough. There was no blood.

Sighing, he crossed his hands and leaned into the side of the bridge again. The water flowed almost silently, a few strands of grass surrendered to it, and flowed down the stream, disappearing for a second below the shadow of the small bridge.

Something made him do it. He started to feverishly scan the water. He noticed the small ripples of water form at the edge of the stream, mixing with mud. Staring at the spot for what seemed like hours, he thought he saw a thin strand of blood at the very edge of the stream. It was dark, almost looked like mud, but it wasn't, he knew it wasn't.

Taking small steps away from the edge, he went around the bridge, and started moving down the grassy wet hill towards the mud and water. Sinking down onto his knees he poked the water hesitantly, being aware of his mad thoughts.

He put his hands against his forehead and suddenly felt like looking up into the path of the sun. Far in the distance he thought he saw something. At his angle, the sunlight was almost covered by a bulky abstraction flouting in the water. The sun outlined its shape.

_It's a body…_

He stood up slowly, not paying attention as his feet slid down into the mud. The mud in his hands ran down the side of his palm, resting briefly on his fingers, covering them almost entirely.

It was suddenly very cold.

The body came closer, it flout silently on top. Raskolnikov could now see the details of the figure. The fingers were twisted, some where curled upwards. Stiff and white as a sheet, almost clear at moments like the water.

As the body floated nearer, he could see the head, the long hair tussled, some of it half way coming off the scalp. The face turned down. The corpse was laying face down. He was glade he couldn't see the eyes.

Raskolnikov took a step back. There was dry blood on the top of the head. It trickled down the side of a wrinkled ear, until it dripped slowly into the water. The dress was of poor quality, the back dirty, probably before the woman had fallen in.

"The woman…"

Mumbling he took another step back, and fell on his butt.

His eyes widened at the impact, and he was aware of his neck and face becoming hot. He touched his cheeks with his dirty fingers, sliding the mud through his skin. Enjoying the coldness left behind by his own touch.

The stench of muck and something too putrid for him to describe reached his nostrils, as the body moved pass him. He had the sudden thought of maybe stopping the body, taking it out, removing it from these conditions. His hand twitched, but he let his arms fall to his side. His hand made a small splash, and he felt the water around his ankles, as he sat.

Looking down, he almost choked, as his throat worked hard to swallow.

The water around him was dark, dark red, his hands were soaked in blood.

"It's not real …"

He whispered, and his youthful, but deep voice gradually started to rise, as he held his shaking hands up into the air, pointing at the ski.

"You are good…you are really really good…DAM YOU! Who do you think will win…you think you will?!!" He laughed hysterically, not bothering to see if anyone else was around.

The shift of water, and the sound of ripples impacted his chest, brought him back a little, and he sobered up and turned towards the corpse.

The head was up, up from the water. On a weird angle from the body, the half way deformed skull that went entirely soft at the side, turned towards him. The eyes were sunken, but still in place. There was a stare, an unwavering stare coming from the woman. The eyes were red, strained, but not glazed over.

Raskolnikov put his hands to the sides slowly as if that would make the demon go away. His first thought was that he was dreaming again, but he became aware that this was too real; he really was in mud, sitting at the bottom of the bridge.

As fast as his body could go, he started moving like a spider up from the water, supporting himself by his hands. However, he lost his footing on the slippery grass, and fell flat on his back.

Having the desire to just lay there and be caught by the thing, he didn't move, and he decided to end it here. His hands formed into fists, taking a few pieces of grass with them. He stared upwards, unblinking for maybe an entire minute, and when a shadow suddenly appeared above him, he closed his eyes tightly and without helping it his body started to shiver.

Large cold fingers touched his inflamed cheeks. He shuttered at the touch, feeling hands move towards his hair, and the thing leaned over him closer, the water dripped from it.

_Ah…why do they torture me so…why can't they just get done with it. Get done with this…_

"End it!!….end it already!" He grabbed the larger body in front of him, digging his dirty and now smelly finger nails into the arms that felt hard, and wondered momentarily how the old brittle women got this strength.

"Shhh..Rodya..stop it… Stop." The thing said quietly, but firmly, trying to hold on to his shaking hands, as he tried to rip himself away from the hold.

"But…I can't let you!" He raved, and his eyes shot open; a new fire burned in those dark depths, violently burning whoever dared to stare into them.

The large hands shuddered, and there was a breath of silence, but they didn't go loose on Raskolnikov.

A hand then entangled in his hair again, and this time it was such a delicate touch, as the fingers caressed the strands that had gotten wet, that the young man blinked, and adjusted his swollen eyes towards the steady, but extremely worried gaze.

They were kind eyes, and the skin around them was smooth.

Raskolnikov's eyes trailed down from the boyish tossed blond hair, to the thin, but strong jaw, and finally rested his eyes on the lips that were almost white, and set in a tight line.

He dropped his hands to the side. The arms bounced off lightly on the mud, making a small splash.

Those hands, the soft attentive hands that always pleased him were on his face again.

_Razumikhin...._

"Don't shout. I'm here Rodya. You have fallen. Are you alright, are you hurt?"

The large hands started touching him. They starting at his face, and were going down his torso, but stopped as they lightly touched his thin waist.

"I thought you wanted to drown yourself or something, you…you really lost your sense… raving like that."

Raskolnikov smirked weakly, feeling lightheaded, his eyes cleared some what and he tried to stand, but Razumikhin was still on top of him.

The hands stopped touching him, and he realized he missed them. He glared lightly at Razumikhin, as if it was his fault he felt like that.

"I'm still alive…now can you…"

"Oh of course, old chap, of course, give me your hands, I will pull you up."

Raskolnikov was just about to lift his tired arms, but Razumikhin then stopped him by putting his own strong hands upon them.

"Never mind that…"

He came closer this time, and Raskolnikov smelled the surprising colon on his neck, as the taller man leaned into him and encircled his arms around him. Not in the least surprised, Raskolnikov was lifted off his feet in an instant. He didn't say anything of course, since there was no point. His friend wouldn't refuse. His own long hands still rested at his side, and he looked like a play thing for the larger man.

Razumikhin knelt down on one knee for a second and adjusted him in his arms. Undecidedly, Raskolnikov lifted his hands and encircled them in the back of the man's neck, as best he could. Seeing that his friend felt comfortable, Razumikhin tightened his grip on him and continued to inspect the face, his eyes grazing over every feature of that thin frame, as if he wasn't sure if he was actually okay.

Turning his head away, Raskolnikov controlled his breathing finally and looked at the water.

_There was nothing there…nothing. He was a fool a total fool. _

Bursting out in a deep chuckle, he turned away from the water, and half slid off Razumikhin; dropping his hands again to the side, he still managed to somehow lean into the hard chest, telling himself it was an unconscious move, but he really didn't need help from anyone.

After his laugh settled down some what, he noticed that the mud had made an interesting pattern on Razumikhin's shirt. He finally thought of his own clothing. They were ruined now like always. He was surprised that Razumikhin hadn't commented on that.

Razumikhin turned his eyes on the street, and sighted quietly. He gathered that he wouldn't have the means to really carry Rodya all the way home. He gazed down, and lifted the other's pale slender right hand and encircled it around his own neck. As he did so, he leaned in and boldly kissed Raskolnikov on his wet hair, earning an almost ghostly jolt out of the young man's otherwise limp form; but, Razumikhin didn't miss much when it came to the other's feelings. He was glade that nothing had happened to him, and he was aware that his grip tightened, but gently enough not to hurt Rodya in his weak state. He told himself that he after all wanted to make sure his friend became well again, all wanted that. Yet other then kiss him lightly on the head like a child, he didn't dare to look at him.

He half carried, half dragged the man from the water and the mud, as he turned to the streets.

"Don't worry, my old chap, you will feel better." He said almost proudly and smiled.

"I don't….." Raskolnikov muttered quietly as he looked with half lidded eyes towards the half dead streets. Razumihkin glanced down at him for a moment for he almost didn't hear what his friend had just mumbled. From this angle, he could only get a good look at his friend's dark hair, which had gone through a nightmare today; the usually soft and rich tresses were tangled and now polluted by muck. He stopped smiling, thinking beyond his friend's physical state; but as he was almost always positive, he held on to the shorter man, and started to walk awkwardly with him into the darkness.

Work Cited

Dostoevsky, Feodor. Crime and Punishment New York: Norton, 1989: 142-143.


End file.
